GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #699: SELLING BOOKS AT COMICONS

 A while back I saw this thing about whether or not authors should try getting a table at comics conventions. A lot of people seemed to be of the opinion that it's something that should be done with the idea that most people aren't there to buy books. Do it but don't expect much.

I tried selling books at Wizard World Chicago once upon a time, and it is my considered advice to not do it at all. Back then I loved comics conventions. Now I have fallen out of love with them. I have no interest in ever going to one again. But keep in mind, back when I tried to do this, people still went to these things because of comic books. I'm sure there are still a few who do, but they've been overshadowed by movies and TV shows so much that it's kind of galling that anyone dares call these comicons.

So yeah. Almost everyone is there to meet celebrities or go to panels on whatever's going on in the MCU or to see whatever disaster DC is putting together for the big screen. After customers have paid ungodly sums for just getting a ticket and then parking, they're not likely to buy books. They have a list of people they want to meet and how much they will pay for that. Considering the prices for these things, they won't have money to buy a book. There's a reason Artists Alley keeps dwindling year after year. It's been a while since I've been to one of these things, but I wouldn't be surprised to discover that there are only a couple of rows in AA these days.

Here is the number one thing that will happen to you if you decide to do this. I know all about it because this happened to me over and over and over again. Someone will pick up your book and flip through it, then put it down. "I thought there'd be pictures," they always say. Always. And then they'll walk away.

Let's assume that your publisher isn't going to go crazy and get a booth. I don't know of any publisher crazy enough to do that because publishers want to make money, but let's assume they're not involved. You're going to wind up paying hundreds of dollars for a table in AA. Maybe it's up to a thousand by now. I wouldn't be surprised. And then you're going to sell maybe five books. I think that's what I sold over the weekend I tried this at WWC. Certainly no more than ten.

Financially, it's not worth it. The only thing you might have to gain is word of mouth, and when most people aren't interested in buying that book, they're definitely not going to talk about it. Maybe the five people who buy the book will talk about it. Possibly. As far as I know, my five did not.

If you must go to a comicon to sell books, don't do one of the big ones like C2E2 or San Diego. Not unless you like losing massive amounts of money. Take it to a smaller show. The ones that can be contained in a high school gymnasium, for example. Or an outdoors place like DuPage County sometimes puts on. I miss Dancon. I would have sold books there in a heartbeat. If you write horror, and chances are, if you're reading this you do, I'd try shows like Days of the Dead or Flashback Weekend. I've done both shows and did well, although I recommend going with a partner and sharing the costs of the table.

But for the love of fuck, don't sell books at a comicon. It's a disaster waiting to happen. A disaster I know well.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #698: HOW I WAS SIGNED UP FOR MEDICAID

It's weird. Over the last two-three weeks maybe four or five friends started talking about Medicaid. I don't know if there's something in the air or not. I mentioned that I might write a GF column about it to one of them, so here it is.

Back in the first half of 2020 I was signed up for Medicaid. I can hear some of you editors out there grimacing at the passivity of that statement. I assure you, I did *not sign up* for it. I *was signed up* for it. Or if I did sign up, then I don't remember.

I lost my job in January 2020. I went through a lengthy hospital stay later that month and went through alcohol withdrawals at the time. And since I constantly had stomach issues back then, I was a regular at the ER. My veins actually collapsed because they put so many IVs in me. To put a new one in, they had to use an ultrasound. Without a job--and by extension, without insurance--how would I pay for that?

More importantly, how would the hospital get paid for that?

The hospital signed me up for it. If I signed any paperwork for Medicaid, they had me do it while I was three sheets on Dilaudid. As I recall they were out of morphine at the time and had to up me to Dilaudid. So it's possible that I signed it while in an opioid haze. But I think they just signed me up for it.

That saved a lot of my finances. I ended up declaring bankruptcy in February 2021, so a lot of it would have gone up in smoke anyway, but I still had my stomach issues, and I didn't get insurance again until maybe April or June of that year? So yes. Still very helpful.

During the pandemic Medicaid decided not to hound recipients to renew, so even though I now had insurance, I had *two* insurances. I didn't have to pay for anything, which pleased me to no end. The ride had to come to an end, though. Now that the pandemic is over, Medicaid is having people renew. There's no way I'll be allowed back on due to having a job and insurance. I guess I'll have to go back to paying copays, etc. Ah well. It was fun while it lasted.

It was nice of the hospital to do that for me/them. Considering the state of my mind back then (including a trip to the psych ward), I don't think it would have been something that would have occurred to me.

All good things . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #697: HAPPY 4TH

 Since I dropped two GFs heavy on politics last week, I promised myself that I would stay away from politics this week. Give you all a rest. So there won't be anything political about me wishing you a Happy Fourth.

I've said elsewhere that holidays don't mean much to me anymore. I thought perhaps it was just a matter of me getting old and not caring anymore, but I think I figured it out over the weekend.

When I was a kid, Gramps was all about the Fourth. Since actual fireworks are illegal in my state, and Elmhurst cops will arrest you for setting them off in the town limits, he'd get all those smoke bombs and snakes and shit, and we'd have a grand ol' time. As I got older, I realized that since fireworks were illegal here, then setting fires should be OK. I used to cut the heads off matches and then use the wood part as kindling with some liberal amounts of lighter fluid to create majestic fires as the denouement to our holiday celebrations.

(Although one year I did get my hands on a set of bottle rockets. I forgot how this happened. I was probably drunk at the time. But that was fun, and I didn't get caught.)

(One other aside. One Fourth, when I was a kid, my dad had me. Usually Mom had me for holidays, but this one time Dad picked me up. We went to his parents' place, where they used actual fireworks. It was unusual for me because I'd never seen anything like it before. I find it kind of funny that most people involved in that fireworks display are now law-n-order people.)

But I don't care about the Fourth anymore. Or any holiday except for Christmas, and I care less and less about that one every year, too. My epiphany over the weekend was this: Gramps was the driving force behind holiday celebrations. Grandma only cared about Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Year's, but every once in a while she watched Gramps set off the "safe" fireworks that IL endorses. But Gramps died in 2017. Possibly 2016 if I'm right about being from an alternate universe. Regardless, that's when I started noticing my lack of caring about holidays. Without Gramps around, it just wasn't the same. And I think maybe that's the real cause behind my holiday apathy.

I had today off from work, and I'm grateful for that, but in all honesty I couldn't care less about the Fourth of July. If you celebrate, I hope you enjoyed it. I just made hotdogs, got high and watched The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, which felt pretty good. It's good enough for me.

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #696: BLACKOUTS

 

Maybe a couple of weeks ago I read the new book from Brubaker and Phillips, Night Fever. It's fun. Not sure I like the ending, but everything else is a good time. It's about a promoter for a publishing house going to Europe for a convention only to get into some serious fuckin' trouble, especially when he blacks out in the presence of another character, but the panel above really spoke to me. As someone who has been a heavy, heavy drinker for almost two decades, I've had my share of blackouts, and I always wondered what was really in the driver's seat. Because it certainly wasn't me.

Brubaker continues: "You're not unconscious, passed out in some corner . . . You're just not there somehow. So what part of your mind is pulling your strings then?" An excellent question for which I don't have an answer. I think about the saying, "First the man takes the drink, then the drink takes the man." Is there a spirit (heh) to the alcohol that takes up residence like a possession? And only sobriety can exorcise the demon? Or maybe another you, like a split personality? Perhaps it's the lizard brain come out to play.

The scariest blackout I ever came out of was when I came back to myself behind the wheel of my car, going about 60 mph down an expressway. A tollway, at that. I do my absolute best to avoid tollways, so Blackout Me decided it might be a good idea to take one? What the fuck was he thinking?

(He asked, as if that was the most horrifying part of this anecdote.)

But most blackouts are pieced together the next day after I wake up, like a mystery. Has science tried to get to the bottom of this? We probably should do a study. If I was still drinking I'd volunteer in a heartbeat. Because I'd like to know, who am I when I've had so much to drink that I'm not me anymore?

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #695: BOOK BANNING BANNED

 Yeah, I know, I'm playing a lot of catch up on these columns. I was gone for, what, three weeks I think?

Anyway, while I was gone my home state of Illinois did something pretty fucking remarkable. They banned book banning. I cannot tell you how much this pleases me. The reasoning is pretty sound, too. According to WBEZ, there were 70 ban attempts in IL alone last year. That's fucking insane. Guess how these cocksuckers tried to rationalize their attempts? Oh yeah. We need to protect the children!

Apparently not from gun violence, though, right? Right? *awkward collar pull*

(Which reminds me, people who say that we can't fuck with gun laws because of the Second Amendment really seem eager to throw the First Amendment under the bus . . .)

Setting aside that it's probably a lot easier on children to make them survive books rather than bullets, this comes at a critical time in the country when people want to deny rights to other people, and the most important thing they can do is to make sure no one empathizes with those people who can't have rights. Because if you learned their plight, you might not be so eager to deny them said rights. It's intellectual fascism of the highest order. Strangle the thought of "the other" in the cradle before it can grow up to help others learn compassion.

I'm sure this will surprise no one, but guess if any Republican voted for the bill. Just guess.

Right, zero. Which is funny because they're usually the ones bitching about the Thought Police, never stopping to think for one fucking second that they, themselves, are the Thought Police.

One of them, an asshole state senator by the name of Jason Plummer, tried a different approach to argue against banning book banning. He said it should be in the hands of local residents because they pay the taxes that support the libraries. "None of your constituents voted for this random organization," he said. "And you're taking their powers away from them simply because you may not agree with their beliefs."

It sounds almost reasonable. It's like people who don't have children complaining about paying taxes for schools. I have no offspring in need of education. Why should I pay for local schools? Like I said, almost reasonable.

But it's horseshit. Libraries exist so people can learn things. Not so they can jerk off in their little echo-chambers. When you pay local taxes, you're paying for the betterment, not of society as a whole, but your specific corner of society. That's why non-parents pay for schools, for example. Do you feel ripped off if your taxes, used in local law enforcement, never pay off because you made it to the end of your life and never had to call the police? That's stupid.

So is the idea that a library must contain only ideas that a group of people like. I'd prefer, for example, that no young and impressionable minds have access to something like Mein Kampf, but do you see me requesting that it be banned? I'm a hetero white guy, so you'd think I'd be on the banners' side, because let's face it, most challenged books are in that spot because they represent LGBTQ and POC people. But the fact of the matter is, if you stick to what you know, in my case the hetero white man experience, then how do you grow as an individual? How can you be more helpful to the rest of society? I am currently reading a John Ridley book called Those Who Walk in Darkness, which is actually pretty spot on for our topic tonight. In a world where people have superpowers, and one of them (ONE!) detonates an entire major city, all of them are outlawed in America. Those who stay have no rights if the authorities find them. Most cops take a shoot-first attitude in cases like this.

Sound kind of familiar?

I'm getting ready to go off on a rant, and I really don't have that much time for that. This is really starting to get away from me, and I have to be up early for work tomorrow. Suffice it to say, those who want to control thought need go no further than book banning. That is step one in making sure The People think only the thoughts you want them to. I'm glad that IL, the state where I was born and where I live, made banning books illegal. They did give libraries an out. If they want to ban books, that's fine, but you lose your funding if you do.

Suck on that.

One more thing. Just because it's the law of the land now doesn't mean it's the law forever. We all thought Roe v Wade was set in stone, and look what happened to that. So we must remain vigilant to make sure assholes don't overturn this law. Just remember that.

TOY CRIME STORY PART 1

 

TOY CRIME STORY

By John Bruni

 

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Joey: Poor doomed boy

Wally: Joey’s dad, alcoholic since his son’s death

Mimi: Joey’s mom, pill popper since her son’s death

Nightbeat: Transformers detective action figure who must solve Joey’s murder

Cat in the Hat: Stuffed animal, possibly the Devil

Felix the Cat: Stuffed animal, retired Hollywood actor

Felix’s wives: sweatered Felixes who Felix hates, gold diggers

Felix’s sons: mini-Felixes Felix does not acknowledge

Don: Donald Duck stuffed animal with a paper bag face, thinks he’s Don Draper

Angel: Plush vampire detective, hates his life

Spike: Plush vampire, pain in Angel’s ass

Bunny: Stuffed animal, neurotic mess

Jack Bunnyson: Bunny’s other personality, thinks he’s Jack Nicholson

Fox in Socks: Stuffed animal, puts cocks in box

Don Snowy: Stuffed fat snowman, Italian pervert

Goombas: Super Mario Bros. villains, Don Snowy’s stuffed goons

Ratchet: Transformers medic, advisor to Nightbeat

CHAPTER ONE

“Joey! Are you all right? Did you fall?”

Silence.

“Joey!” They heard his mother coming closer to the stairs. None of them were close to the door, so they couldn’t watch. They couldn’t risk being caught.

“Oh my God! Joey!” Hurried footsteps down the stairs. “Wally! God! Wally! Come quick! Joey’s hurt!”

Heavier footsteps as Joey’s dad approached from downstairs. They suddenly rushed closer. “Oh God! Joey! Are you okay?”

Nightbeat, ever curious, approached the door. Keeping mostly hidden behind the wedge of open door, he could see down the steps as Wally and Mimi cradled their son at the bottom.

“Oh God!” Wally said. “He’s not breathing!” He touched Joey’s neck, looking for a pulse, finding none. Joey’s head lolled as if attached by a thread.

“Is he . . . ?” Mimi’s hands flew over Joey’s body, searching for his injuries.

“Call 911! For God’s sake!”

Mimi rushed away, looking for her phone. Nightbeat watched as Wally put his son’s chest up to his ear, hoping for any sign of life, tears already in his eyes. Joey’s head hung at an impossible angle, and Nightbeat saw a smudge of blood on the boy’s nose.

Broken neck, he thought. It’s gotta be.

“What’s going on?”

Nightbeat turned to see Fox in Socks’s red form, inquisitive nose wrinkled. He didn’t dare approach the door. He’d be seen too easily. Nightbeat was small and nondescript.

“I think we might have a problem,” Nightbeat said.

“Oooh, a problem?” Cat in the Hat swooped in, grinning. “I love a good problem. What is this?”

Nightbeat grimaced. The lyrical sound of Cat’s British accent made his gears grind. “I think Joey might be dead.”

“My word,” Cat said. He held a gloved hand to his mouth.

Nightbeat’s diagnosis rumbled through the other toys behind him. He shushed them as he tried to get a closer look. Down the stairs, Mimi returned with her phone, barking tearful orders into it. Wally looked up at her and shook his head.

“No!” Mimi screamed. “No! It can’t be! You don’t know what they’re doing! The paramedics are on the way! Let them do their job! They’ll fix him. I know they will!”

Wally, tears now streaming down his face, laid Joey out on the floor. He found a blanket and gently placed it over his son’s face.

“No!” Mimi cried. “You take that off of him right now! He’s alive, dammit! He’s alive!”

Wally tried to embrace his wife, but she pushed him back. “Fuck you! Our boy is alive! Alive!”

He fought against her for a moment, but then she collapsed into his arms, sobbing. They held each other, weeping, until the paramedics showed up. The cops followed. A few firemen, too. Nightbeat knew it was procedure.

“Is it true?”

Nightbeat didn’t need to turn around. He knew Bunny’s whiny voice anywhere. “Looks like it. Poor Joey.”

“Oh no!” Bunny cried. “We’re never going to play again!”

The news spread through the rest of the toys quickly. Nightbeat watched the proceedings downstairs as closely as he could. The police questioned Wally and Mimi downstairs while the paramedics zipped Joey up in a black bag and carted him away. Nightbeat tried to hear the words they were saying down there, but the distance was too far.

Everyone left. Just to be safe, Nightbeat pushed the door closed. He turned to face all of his companions. “I hate to say it, but Joey’s gone. He’s dead.”

Bunny cried out his grief, as did a few others. Fox broke down in tears, covering his eyes with his blue mittens.

“What happened?” Angel asked. “Joey looked fine to me a few minutes ago.”

“It looks like he went down the stairs,” Nightbeat said. “I know they’ll say it was an accident, that he tripped.”

“Oh please,” Cat said. “That’s obviously what happened.”

“I don’t think so,” Nightbeat said. “I think it was murder, and I think one of you did it.”

TO BE CONTINUED . . .

GOODNIGHT, FUCKERS #694: THE END IS NEVER CONVENIENT

 Here's an odd experience I had while I was on hiatus. My attitude towards death is pretty laid back. It's going to happen to all of us. It sucks, but that's the way it goes. I don't fear it, exactly. Maybe the how sometimes, but never the fact of death itself. I learned at a very early age, perhaps in a cruel manner, that death is inevitable, and I learned to live with that.

But while I was watching The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel a few weeks ago I had this sudden feeling. I hadn't felt it since I was maybe ten? Yeah, ten at most. Fear gut stabbed me out of the blue, and I thought, what if I die right now? And it made me think of all the nothing that came before my birth and the nothing that would come after my death, and the thing that bothered me the most was that death would probably come when I was busy doing something.

That it would be really inconvenient. I'll be busy. I've got a lot of stuff going on. When it sneaks up on me, I'm not going to finish whatever task I'm doing at the time. Since I believe there is nothing after this, I felt all the regret I would have felt if there *was* something in that moment.

It was a weird feeling, and it happened again today while I was watching the new Indiana Jones movie. Sitting there in the theater thinking that it would be really inconvenient for me to die right there. Would anyone notice in the dark theater? Maybe when the credits started to roll and my two friends wondered why I didn't stand up. And what then? Who would pick up my car and bring it back home? My brother wouldn't know how to handle something like this. My aunt would have to travel all the way from East Moline to have them transport my husk to Elmhurst (I was near Bolingbrook at the time), and it would all be one big inconvenient hassle.

There was a teeny tiny part of me that found an odd comfort because the feeling did remind me of what it was like to be a kid. I was a fearful child, which is pretty funny if you know me now. It turned back the clock for me, my own little inner Dial of Destiny.

Of course, only now am I thinking that my survivors wouldn't have felt it was a hassle. They would probably be too lost in grief. But it helps that I wrote the thing about not multitasking. Remembering my own words about unfinished work brought me back to the ground.

Oh yeah, the movie was pretty good. Better than Crystal Skull by far, although I imagine there will be a lot of people complaining about the ending. Anyway, since it's a grim GF tonight, let's end it with my ranking of Indy's movies.

1. Raiders (obviously)

2. Last Crusade

3. Temple

4. Dial of Destiny

5. Crystal Skull